


Falling For Her Doorstep

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Other, but the true otp is Cas and the Doorstep, there's megstiel as a side pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12391719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: Drawn magnetically to them, Castiel crossed the street, shy in his approach, not quite lurking but certainly attempting to shield himself behind a shrub as he stared. It was impolite, after all, to stare at another person’s doorstep.





	Falling For Her Doorstep

It was purely by chance that Castiel had met them. His usual morning-jog route had been disrupted by sidewalk construction along the park border that he favored, blocking the north east entrance to the park. The sidewalks certainly needed to be repaired, cracked and slanted from years of slow upheaval by tenacious tree roots. Although it may have been a treacherous jogging path, the park view was worth it in Castiel’s opinion.

But today, he veered to the other corner, the north west, to enter the park. As he jogged along the border sidewalk, slow traffic interrupting the solitude of morning with the occasional automobile, Castiel had turned to watch the path of a strange yellow car decorated with too many bumper stickers when he saw them.

Managing to trip on a lone acorn, Castiel fell and scraped his knees.

Standing with a frown, he couldn’t care about the dull ache in his knees when they were there, across the street, graceful and solitary. Their curves gleamed in the sunlight lancing across the trees of the park, slanting underneath the small blue awning, golden beams stroking almost playfully against them.

Drawn magnetically to them, Castiel crossed the street, shy in his approach, not quite lurking but certainly attempting to shield himself behind a shrub as he stared. It was impolite, after all, to stare at another person’s doorstep.

The front door, white with three square glass panels descending horizontally, swung open. Castiel flinched behind his shrub, but dare not move and give himself up. A woman stepped out, bare foot pale and delicate as she stepped upon the lone doorstep, it’s blue paint bright and shining wetly with morning dew. She wore a lavender bathrobe, her dark and curly hair tumbling over her shoulders messily as she stepped down again where a bristly welcome mat sat in front of the doorstep. Bending, she picked up a morning newspaper.

Turning back and placing a foot upon the blue doorstep - Castiel squinted, concrete, they were painted concrete, edge soft with age and sloping, pockmarked slightly where the years had worn small chips away - the woman paused and looked over her shoulder. She stared at Castiel’s hiding spot, and he was paralyzed, uncertain if she saw him there or not.

Shaking her head, newspaper tucked beneath her arm, the woman went back inside.

Castiel indulged himself in the sight of her doorstep for a minute longer. The house was a simple white thing, one story, the front door flanked by two large windows with overgrown rosebushes beneath them, prickly limbs and soft petals brushing against the sides of the blue doorstep.

As Castiel heard the neighborhood slowly waking up, he turned back to the park and continued his morning jog in a daze.

-

Following his first encounter with the beautiful blue painted doorstep, Castiel was too embarrassed to jog by again and so he took a more circuitous route around the park. For an entire week. They had finished re-paving his normal route before Castiel worked up the nerve to run up the street where the doorstep resided.

He didn’t want to linger by the bushes again, afraid of being caught, but he decided to jog back the way he came so that he could see them twice in a morning, rather than going in a circle.

She was out getting the paper that morning, when he jogged by on his way back. Castiel noticed that her toenails were painted black, curled against the edge of the doorstep as she tucked the paper beneath her arm. She caught his eye, smirking knowingly, and waved at him.

Castiel stopped, and waved back. The morning sun was warm against his shoulders. He watched mesmerized as she dragged a foot along the doorstep, toes dipping into one particularly deep gouge, swiping a trail through the morning dew.

“Hey.” She said.

Like an idiot, Castiel waved again.

“You want to come in for a cup of coffee?”

Nodding dumbly, Castiel jogged up the walkway to her front door. As he approached, he could read the bold black font on the doormat, sitting just in front of the blue step. It read ‘Fuck Off’. Yet the woman that owned it invited a complete stranger in for coffee. She didn’t even know his name. Or that it was her doorstep which Castiel coveted, not the plush curve of her lips or the creamy swell of her breasts spilling out of her loose-tied robe.

No, it was them. The doorstep. Blue paint bright and cheerful, some dirt gathered in the crease between them and the house. Rose petals scattered haphazardly like a blush across smile-rounded cheeks. They deserved to be better tended. Have their cracks patched, their paint touched up, their crease re-caulked.

Castiel’s breath caught as he stepped upon them for the first time. He longed to remove his shoes, to feel their texture beneath his bare feet. Instead, he followed the strange woman into her house.

-

Meg. Her name was Meg. She gave him coffee and fucked him on a kitchen chair while her calico cat sat on the counter and watched. It was satisfactory. Not what he truly desired, though. But people didn’t understand what his heart longed for. He would take up her offer as long as she extended it, that he might have the honor of bearing his weight down upon the lovely flat stretch of her front doorstep.

And so Castiel continued to jog by her house every morning. He rearranged his morning routine to allow for the extra half hour he spent in Meg’s company. He lingered upon her doorstep, sighing wistfully as he left, letting her believe his sigh was for her as she leaned against the doorframe with her satisfied smile and waved him goodbye.

-

“So, do you have, like,” Meg shook a hand in a vague gesture, sipping coffee from a chipped gray mug, “I don’t know, some sort of fetish for concrete?”

Meg was more observant than Castiel had given her credit for.

“I - what! No,” he scowled over his mug at her, “That’s. What?”

Not his most articulate moment.

“You do this weird shuffle where you rub your feet on my doortstep when you leave and sigh like some sort of jilted lover.” Setting her coffee down, Meg sprawled naked and unashamed across the coffee table from him. She picked up toast spread with marmalade, speaking with her mouth full - as uncouth as ever. There were crumbs on her breasts. “So, do you want to rub your dick on it or what? What’s it about?”

“You’re insufferable,” Castiel muttered. It only made her smile.

Months of jogging by her house, staring longingly at her doorstep in a manner he’d deemed subtle enough, following her inside for sex and coffee so he could pass his feet over the dew wet concrete of the blue doorstep, and she saw right through him.

“It’s nothing so crass as that,” he said.

There wasn’t much Castiel could say on the subject matter. He didn’t understand it himself. It was the way the doorstep called to him, it’s blue so bright against the white of the house, such pleasing proportions to the width and depth and height of that singular, lone step. Framed by wild pink rosebushes, always carelessly dropping their petals against the doorstep. It was deeply alluring.

From a young age, steps had caught his attention, sturdy and dependable as they were, simple in their functionality and yet so important. Often quiet and overlooked. It wasn’t until puberty hit that certain doorsteps in particular became something more than unusual friends. They were somehow mysterious, a line between the exterior and interior of house and private life. Front steps bore so much traffic, wood bowed under years, concrete chipped away, brick coming loose from aged tuck pointing crumbling. People didn’t give their doorsteps the credit they deserved.

“You’re daydreaming about fucking my doorstep aren’t you? What kind of fucked up childhood gives someone a fetish for steps…. At least I have normal kinks like getting spanked and choked and fucked on the kitchen table.”

Castiel glared at her.

The sweaty impression of her breasts were still outlined on top of the wood kitchen table where he’d bent her over that morning.

Well, if she were so curious, perhaps he could indulge himself and sate her curiosity.

“I merely wish to rub my feet on your doorstep. Bare. When they’re still wet from the morning dew.”

Arching one thin eyebrow, Meg munched on the crust of her toast. “Kinky. As long as I get to watch, you can do anything you want with my doorstep.”

“I -” Castiel found his heart beating faster, this was too soon. He couldn’t just take off his shoes and set his feet upon the doorstep right now. “Tomorrow. I have to be going for work.”

“Sure.”

Standing, Meg picked her robe up off the floor and slid it on. She grabbed his half empty coffee mug and finished it one gulp as Castiel tucked himself back into his running shorts. The sweat that soaked his t-shirt had gone cold. He hurried out the front door, Meg watching him closely as he shuffled over the front doorstep.

-

He was ready the next morning. A doorstep as lovely as Meg’s deserved the best attention. That meant taking a pumice stone to his rough feet, softening them with cocoa butter, trimming his nails neatly.

Feet wet with the sweat from his morning jog, breath coming short from anticipation, he stood on the ‘Fuck Off’ mat as he waited for Meg to answer the door. She would be there at the usual time, he needn’t ring the bell. The air was sweet with the roses in bloom, silky petals scattered across the blue doorstep, sticking with dew.

How many times had he stepped upon them, feet trapped in his shoes, and today he would know the texture of their concrete, would feel the raw chipped dip of unpainted concrete under his toes where age had taken it’s toll. He could curl his toes over the edge and balance upon them. It was almost too much to think about.

Meg opened the door, robe tied closed, mug steaming in her hands.

“So? What have you got planned?”

Castiel swallowed thickly, bent over and unlaced his sneakers. He pulled them off, setting them on the doormat. Taking his socks off, he meticulously balled them and placed them inside his sneakers. He was careful not to put his bare feet upon the concrete walkway, but rather stood exposed on the mat. The texture was coarse and rough to his skin, as unwelcoming as the message upon it. Meg watched him curiously.

The first tentative step upon them had Castiel’s toes curling in bliss already. The concrete was still chilled from the night, despite the sun rising over the trees and quiet sleepy houses. Morning dew beaded upon smooth paint left trails where Castiel swiped his foot, before settling his weight upon it and lifting his second foot onto the doorstep.

The solid, broad doorstep supported him just as they had every day the past month, but to feel the minutia of the dimpled surface, small pebbles beneath the paint job, sections rough worn from age, the slick catch of rose petals as he swept them aside.

This was the most satisfying doorstep Castiel had ever set foot upon.

“Hey, if you need some time alone with that doorstep and your feelings, just let me know,” Meg said.

Honestly, it felt liberating to have his love for this doorstep witnessed. Castiel smiled and told her, “No, this is perfect. I want you to see.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything for a month and somehow Coldest Hits shakes me out of my stupor and lures in me with romantic ideas about doorsteps. Thanks Coldest Hits.


End file.
